


trying to make a devil of me

by monsoon_moon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Feral behaviour, Knotting, M/M, Marathon Sex, Something Made Them Do It, rape/noncon, sex pollen of the spell variety, victim wanted it but not like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-31 12:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15119102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsoon_moon/pseuds/monsoon_moon
Summary: Derek gets whammied. And then Stiles does too.





	trying to make a devil of me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).



> Dear Reeby10, I wrote this for you and I hope that you like it.

"What the fuck do we do now??"

The hunter's voice is gratifyingly hysterical Stiles thinks, grimly satisfied as he tries to swallow down the blood in his mouth. He reaches carefully for his jeans, discarded on the floor, hoping the remaining hunters don't notice. They don't, distracted as they are by the body at their feet, blood still sluggishly pumping from the gashes in its neck. His bare foot bumps something as he tries to shove his foot into his jeans while still paying attention to the remaining hunters. Hysteria is bad for his continued ability to live, he knows from experience. He glances down and has to grab the table beside him at the rolling wave of nausea.

The dildo is still glistening with lube where it rolls in a lazy half-circle by his toe. Stiles closes his eyes and forces back the sensation of it stretching him, the taunts of the hunters about what was coming and Derek's furious snarls.

"We have a fucking audience waiting," Hunter number two says, voice tight, eyes never leaving the body on the floor.

His tone helps Stiles pull himself back from the brink, helps ground him. Carefully, he tugs his jeans on the rest of the way. His shoes are gone and his tshirt is in shreds but he feels less vulnerable with his groin tucked away under a layer of denim.

"Where? Huh? Where are they waiting? Daryl didn't exactly fucking share," Hunter number three snaps, poking the body that was formerly Daryl roughly with the toe of his boot. "We have an enraged wolf, a magic circle that's gonna fade in an hour with no Daryl to strengthen it. Unless he told one of you two how to do it?" He turns to stare at them both pointedly then throws his hands in the air. "No? Shocking. Daryl, keeping fucking important information to himself."

"And a rich audience who aren't gonna get what they paid for," Hunter number one adds, making a gesture in Stiles direction. At that, all three hunters seem to remember he exists. Stiles freezes under their sudden attention, halfway to the window, and waves.

"Hey, guys," he says, trying to think fast. The wet feeling in his ass is distracting but if he lets himself think about that, he has to think about all the other things that happened and he _can't_. So he pastes on a smile and thinks while his mouth babbles. "So, Daryl was your point man, huh? Your go-to guy. Your leader. Your alpha. Your..."

"We're not fucking animals," Hunter number three says with a derisive snort at Derek. Derek makes a run at the magical barrier. It holds but the hunter jerks hard enough that he almost loses his footing as he scrambles to the other side of the cabin.

"Huh," Stiles says, tilting his head. "You guys aren't trained hunters, are you? Wow, Daryl really fucked you over. What a dick."

"He _was_ training us," Hunter number two says defensively, "it was on the job trai...ow" he complains, cut off by hunter number one's elbow jab to the gut.

"Shut the fuck up," Hunter number one hisses, "jesus christ, you fucking amateur."

"Pretty sure you're all amateurs," Stiles says then holds his hands up in supplication when hunter number one steps towards him menacingly. "Easy there Elmer Fudd, I'm just saying. You guys don't know what you're doing and wolfiepants there has already taken out your fearless leader."

Everyone turns to look at Derek, whose pacing the confines of his invisible cage. He stares down the hunters and slowly raises his lips to expose his fangs. Somehow, it's more menacing without the expected growl. If Stiles didn't know Derek, he might be scared too. But he does, so he just leans carefully against the bench he's managed to wander himself close to and inches his hand slowly towards the gun Daryl the dead hunter had casually tossed there when he was....well, it doesn't matter what he was doing because he's dead now.

"We should leave," Hunter number two says suddenly. Stiles was expecting one of them to crack, but his money has been on number one.

"Are you gonna refund the assholes who paid for this?" Hunter number three says, waving his arms expansively. "If we don't provide what we promised, we're toast."

"Yeah but," Hunter number one says thoughtfully, eyeing dead Daryl, "Daryl was the one who dealt with everyone. He took the money. He set up the deal. We didn't speak to anyone."

Huh. Maybe Stiles underestimated hunter number one. His fingers brush the gun and he carefully eases his arm around to get a better grip while he watches the argument play out. Best to be prepared.

"So no one knows we're involved," Hunter number two says slowly. "There's no way he would have told anyone other people were involved if he could take all the credit himself."

"Hey!" Hunter number three says, "Don't speak ill of the dead," but he's staring at dead Daryl's corpse. Stiles can see they're getting there but maybe just a little push.

"Your fearless leader got cocky and look where it got him," Stiles says. One of these days he's going to examine how much dead bodies don't affect him anymore but not today. "And he knew what he was doing. So you guys say. You guys should leave. Get in your truck and go. Out of the county. Maybe out of the state, just to be sure."

There's a long minute where hunter number three looks like he wants to argue, just to be contrary, but sense wins out.

"Sit down, over there," Hunter number one says, "count to one thousand, okay? Don't move until you're done."

Nope, turns out Stiles was right about hunter number one the first time, but he does as he's told. Hunter number one stands by the door, gun half trained on Stiles, eyes darting around, while the others grab their stuff and hustle.

"To one thousand," hunter number one repeats as he backs out the door.

Stiles sits until he hears tires squeal, then he bounces out of the chair and straight over to Derek's little containment area.

"Don't."

It's the strain in his voice more than anything that has Stiles stuttering to a stop with his bare toes centimetres from the line dead Daryl painted onto the floorboards.

"Derek?" he tries, cautiously. He stumbles back quickly when Derek surges up against the barrier, hands reaching for the space Stiles was in. Derek's face is empty for a long terrifying minute before he full-body shivers like he's forcing himself back into his own skin. Stiles opens his mouth again but Derek shakes his head so violently that Stiles clicks his teeth together in an effort to keep his words behind them.

"I can't," Derek pants, "I can't stop it. They...you know what they...what he..." He makes a sharp aborted movement towards dead Daryl's body and Stiles wishes fervently that they could kill him all over again for what he's done. Which is definitely something else Stiles needs to examine. But not now.

"It's going to happen," Derek says, low and sure and angry, "It can't be stopped. I've got to...until it's done.The full moon is....until it's done, Stiles." He tosses his head, shoulders bunching and Stiles can feel the shakiness in his own limbs at Derek's words. "I can control it...a little...maybe. I can't be sure. But," he looks up and meets Stiles eyes, his face grave and serious, "I promise I'll try."

That's not really what Stiles wanted to hear. He takes a breath, a deep shock of air that fills his lungs with panic, and tries to blow it all out before he loses it and makes everything so much worse. Can it get worse? He's not sure but he'd really like not to find out.

"What should I do?" Stiles says. "Fuck! What should I? There's a gun! If I shoot you, will it help?"

"It won't slow me down," Derek says and the fact that he doesn't roll his eyes, doesn't say _Stiles_ in that voice he uses when Stiles is being particularly obnoxious, scares Stiles more than anything else. "I'll still... I don't know if pain will make me more...I don't know." His sides heave but he lifts his head and looks at Stiles when he says "I do know it won't stop me."

"Shit," Stiles says and Derek nods because shit. They stare at each other and Stiles watches as Derek shivers between the Derek he knows and the one dead fucking Daryl was hoping to bring out.

"Fuck you, Daryl," Stiles says, then again, louder. "Fuck you _,_ Daryl. I hope you come back as a dung beetle. No, a toilet brush. No no, one of those ants where the fungus takes over their brain and makes them do st..." but no because that's too close, _too close_ , so instead he kicks at dead Daryl's body. His foot connects with a meaty thump and it hurts, fuck. He staggers back, clutching at his stupid throbbing foot, trying to massage the pain out. This whole situation is so fucking fucked.

"You should go," Derek says, "you should leave. There has to be a road nearby. You can get out before I..."

Stiles is a lot of things, too loud, too busy, too wild, too goddamn  _much_ , but one thing he isn't is stupid. He knows he's not outrunning Derek. Not out here, in this cabin in the fucking woods horror movie. He has nothing to protect himself. No wolfsbane. No mountain ash. The area's unfamiliar so he doesn't even have the home advantage to give him the possibility of rigging something up that might swing things in his favour. He turns to say all this but Derek's face stops him dead.

"Okay," Stiles says and grabs his backpack. He stuffs in some unopened water from the fridge, a couple chocolate bars from the stuff dead Daryl had tipped out of this very bag earlier. His phone is beyond help. He grabs it anyway and stuffs it inside. He can hear all the little broken plastic bits tinkling down to the bottom but he feels weird without his phone, even if it is smashed to pieces.

"You should take that," Derek says and he's not looking at Stiles but he's pointing at the table that...Stiles takes a breath. And another. And another.

"It won't be quick," Derek says, like the words are tearing at his throat, "I don't want to hurt you more than...you should." He won't look at Stiles and his neck is a tense line.

That's when Stiles realises that Derek knows there's no way he's getting outrun. It makes Stiles want to snap something sharp about sure things or cocky wolves but his tongue is thick in his mouth, uncooperative.

"There's going to be..." Derek trails off and Stiles's hands flex around the straps of his backpack, waiting for the rest of the sentence. Derek sucks in a breath and says "I'm going to knot you. It won't be easy. I don't know if every time but...the first. I'm going to. You'll need to take it." His jaw clenches. "I don't want to hurt you." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself.

"I asked you!" Stiles says, incensed. "I asked you and you said god Stiles, I'm not a _dog._ " He squishes his brow and deepens his voice in a mimic of Derek's pissy tone when Stiles has asked one too many questions. "I can't believe you lied to me!"

"I didn't lie," Derek protests, "I'm not a dog. And my genitals are none of your business."

"Well, they're about to be," Stiles shoots back and there, that's the thing that breaks the mood.

Derek's back tenses all the way up and Stiles's knuckles go white. There's a long painful silence where Stiles stares at the side of Derek's face and Derek stares at the wall. The ripple running through his muscles is more pronounced than it was. Slats of sunshine are hitting Derek side on, illuminating parts of his naked torso in warm stripes. There's blood streaked down his chest and across his forearms, matte swipes through the golden glow. It's a good look on Derek, which is horrifying. It's almost too much for Stiles to look at.

Stiles has more preservation instincts than most of Beacon Hills gave him credit for. He'd noticed Derek's _Derekness_ the first time they met, even though Derek was yelling like a jackass. Later, when he noticed _Derek_ noticing him noticing, he very firmly shoved all that in a box. The last thing he needed was hormones or whatever being used against him. When he was safely out of Beacon Hills, and werewolf range, he maybe let himself think about Derek with a little more insistency. Stiles was really really wishing he'd stuck to his previous off limits line.

"Stiles," Derek says, and his voice is definitely strained. "Take it and go. Hurry."

Stiles crabwalks to the table, keeping it in his peripheral like it might bite him if he looks at it head on, and swipes the bottle of lube with a finger and a thumb, launching it into his bag with minimal touching.

"I hate this," Stiles says emphatically.

Derek says nothing.

Stiles shoves a few more things into his backpack and drags the straps over his shoulders. They dig uncomfortably into his skin and he can already tell they're going to irritate the hell out of him but there's nothing to be done about it. He could in theory take dead Daryl's shirt but he'd rather get the worst type of rash than touch dead Daryl.

Stiles turns and Derek is there, at the very edge of the circle, staring at him. There's something in his face, something terrifying. He full body shudders and it almost looks like there's a fight going on just beneath his skin, then it's gone and Derek is watching at him with intent eyes.

"Stiles," he says and his voice is deeply strained but sly, like part of him knows a secret Stiles doesn't. All the hairs on Stiles body stand on end.

"Yeah?" Stiles replies, unable to stop the word from leaving his mouth.

Derek tilts his head then meets Stiles eyes and grins, a wide jagged thing that makes Stiles think of things with teeth that lurk in the dark.

"You should run."

Stiles does.

Derek snarls as Stiles passes him, bashing up against the barrier, all claws and fangs. Stiles crashes through the cottage door, doesn't bother to stop to pull it behind him. His feet dig into the dirt, stones and twigs making him stumble. His shoes are still inside but when he turns Derek is tracking him, head tipped down, eyes glowing. He licks his fangs. Stiles stumbles backwards, falls on his ass, scrambles upright and keeps running. Derek's low growl follows him into the forest.

It's hot, the sun beating down on his exposed shoulders, so Stiles veers into the trees. The ground is harder on his feet and he cries out as twigs dig into the soft fleshy parts of his sole, but better to be in the shade. He can run longer if he doesn't overheat. Hysterically, he thinks it should be raining. It should be overcast and thundery. He knows what's coming and this bright warm summery day feels like its mocking him. Birds chirrup in the trees as he dashes past, jeering his futility. He should have just stayed in the damn cabin, let Derek....

Stiles stumbles, catches himself on a tree, backpack saving his back from meeting the uneven bark. He roots around for water, fingers closing on the lube, and dropping it just as fast, before he finds what he's looking for. He gulps half a bottle then puts his hands on his knees and tries to suck in air. It's warm though, sticky with humidity. It's not satisfying. His thoughts bounce and spiral between what happened to him, what Daryl did before he became dead Daryl, what was supposed to happen, what Derek is going to do.

Stiles closes his eyes and tips his head back until it meets the trunk and tries to centre himself. Just tries to breathe and calm his brain, maybe formulate a plan that will get him and Derek out of this with minimal scarring. He pushes away from the tree and moves forward a little, eyes scanning around, looking for something, _anything_.

He feels it when the magic gives, a heavy soundless thump that smacks him square in the back and sends him to his knees, rolling right over him, making all the trees violently shiver for a long moment.

Then everything falls silent.

Stiles can hear his own breathing, harsh and ragged, but the rest of the forest is eerily still. Even the cruelly careless birdsong has stopped.

The howl that breaks the tension is wild and high, both a promise and a warning.

Stiles picks himself up, ignoring his bleeding knees and his scraped palms, and keeps running. He doesn't have an aim anymore, just away. Away from what's coming at his back. He crashes through the trees, slipping and tripping his way, knowing he's leaving a trail in his wake that screams exactly where he's been but too panicked to care. Derek is coming and its not his Derek. It's something else. And Stiles is scared.

There's a crash to his left and Stiles veers right, trying to keep upright, trying to keep his feet from getting any more scraped up than they are. There's another crash, to his right this time, a glimpse of a furred shadow followed by a howl, so close it makes gooseflesh raise on Stiles skin. He veers left, back the way he came, trips over a rock he leapt over the first time and smashes hard into the ground.

Derek is toying with him he realises all at once. Derek told him to run because Derek wanted to chase. And Stiles gave it to him like an idiot. He rights himself slowly, cataloguing his scrapes and his bruises. Something in his foot is twinging in a way that suggests it could be worse than just a bump but Stiles can't worry about that right now.

"I'm not running," he calls, squinting into the trees. "Fuck you, I can't believe you made me...Derek!"

The forest remains silent but Derek doesn't appear out of the trees. Stiles looks around but he can't see wolf Derek or human Derek. He knows Derek is out there. Probably watching him. It's a terrifying feeling.

"I'm not running," Stiles says again, quieter.

He turns around and Derek is there.

Derek looks wild, like wild beyond Stiles's imagination. He doesn't have the words for how Derek looks. Not like his Derek, with his stupid tight jeans and his love of second hand paperbacks. Not like his Derek with his preciousness about his dumb muscle car and making everyone take their shoes off before the scuff up the cherry wood floors in his loft.

This Derek is not Stiles's Derek.

This Derek sways on his feet, shifting with the wind. He moves like he's made of water, fluid, on his toes like a dancer. Or a werewolf under a spell neither of them understand. Oh they know what it's going to do, but they don't understand it. Will it wear off? Will regular Derek come back? Will Stiles survive? There are no answers to be had in this Derek's bright eyes and no way around what's been done to them, only through.

Stiles tries to run anyway.

He's barely turned on his feet when Derek's hand grasps his backpack, picks him right up off the ground and throws him into the dirt. It's stupid, but Stiles fights to keep hold of his backpack, like he has any chance of doing so. Derek's claws tear through the material with no effort at all and the pack drops to the ground by his head with a thud, Derek's hands blood-warm on the muscle of his back.

Stiles struggles, or he tries to. Derek laughs above him, like Stiles is delightful, and his fingers dig into Stiles's skin, claws sharp. Stiles can feel blood welling in the scratches left behind, pinpricks of pain on his skin. He jerks when Derek's tongue swipes the length of the pain, moaning low in his throat. Derek tasting his blood is so far from what he was prepared for.

"Derek," he tries, uncaring of how tight his voice is, "Derek!"

Derek doesn't acknowledge him at all. His hands slide to Stiles's shoulderblades and press down until Stiles's body can't withstand the pressure, his chest bowing down into the dirt. Stiles tries to keep his head up but the strain on his neck is too much and he gives, pressing his cheek into the ground.

"Derek, please," he begs, reedy and thin, as one of Derek's hand trails his spine, a claw pressing down just the wrong side of painful," Derek, you promised you'd try!"

Miraculously, Derek pauses. Stiles holds his breath.

"Stiles?" Derek says. His voice sounds like he's speaking from very far away, "Stiles I'm trying but I..." His hands flex fitfully and Stiles whimpers as claws dig into his skin repeatedly. "I can hold on for a minute maybe, give you time to use some..."

Derek stops speaking but he laboriously reaches for Stiles's backpack, like taking his hands off Stiles's skin is physically painful, and nudges it closer. Stiles pushes up carefully, absorbs the automatic pushback he gets before Derek manages to lever himself up far enough to give Stiles space.

"I can't believe this is happening," Stiles says, yanking his bag open with one shaking hand and groping inside for the bottle Derek told him to bring. His hand shies away automatically before he steels himself and grabs it.

"Don't talk," Derek says, strained. His body looms close for a long moment before he manages to pull back. "Hurry up, I can't for much longer."

Stiles tries not to think too hard about it as he opens the button on his jeans and shucks them down past his thighs. Derek's body presses close for a second then backs away. Stiles can feel the heat of the sun on the back of his legs. He concentrates on that while he pops the lid on the bottle in his hand. He pauses, staring at it. The bottle is a shade of purple Stiles knows he'll hate for the rest of his life.

"Stiles," Derek snaps and oddly it's that moment of Derek sounding like his Derek, pissy and out of patience, that hurries Stiles along.

Stiles isn't a virgin in any sense of the word but it's a different beast, fingering himself knowing why he's doing it. The lube is warmer than Stiles expected, not that it makes the process any easier.

"I'm going to knot you," Derek says and it's still his Derek but there's a note of something in the undercurrent of his tone, something like pleasure. "You're going to need more than that."

Stiles tips more lube into his hand and repeats the process, two, three, four times, until half the bottle is gone and he's slippery between his asscheeks and down his thighs. His hand is tacky. He tries to wipe it in the dirt by his hip but it just makes more of a mess. His breathing is quick, sides heaving.

"Derek?" he asks into the stillness at his back.

The only answer he gets is a wordless snarl.

Derek is suddenly everywhere, yanking Stiles's jeans from his body. Stiles hears material tear and Derek is on him, shoving him down, hands hot on him, gripping his shoulder and shoving at his thighs.

"Derek, fuck," Stiles whines, fear taking over. Derek is a mess of grabbing and growling, heavy on Stiles's body, forcing him down. He weighs so much, even with the muscle Stiles has put on. Stiles tries to brace but it's impossible. Derek tugs at his thighs, skidding one wide, and Stiles automatically tries to crawl away and then Derek's hand is heavy on his neck, slamming him down, pinning him.

"Derek!" Stiles tries even though he knows it's futile. Whatever was done to Derek, it's in control now. Derek is so close, skin sticking to Stiles's and he smells like dirt and blood. Stiles can taste it on his tongue.

Derek scrabbles at him, yanking him back until Stiles's ass is in the curve of Derek's groin. Stiles can feel Derek's cock pressing, looking for a way inside, slipping on all the lube Stiles used, slipping against his skin. It feels big, impossibly so, though Stiles has fucked men before so he knows it's not.

The first press inside is a brutal push, Derek's cock thumping in with no finesse and no thought besides his own need. Stiles tries to gasp through it, grateful for the lube, grateful for Derek's forethought even as Derek tries to fuck in deeper without actually pulling back. Stiles's knees slide in the dirt, and Derek wraps his hands around Stiles's shoulders, holding him still while he curls his body down around Stiles.

Stiles tries to breathe through it but its so much, Derek a heavy weight on him and inside him, half snarling into the top of his head as he tries to force his cock further inside. There's no further for it to go and Stiles tries to say so but his face is mashed into the dirt and all that comes out is a low whimper.

Derek fucks him hard, digging into everywhere Stiles is soft, a rhythmless hump that Stiles can do nothing but try and ride out. Derek starts to hump in quicker, huffing into Stiles's neck and Stiles can feel the swelling, the way Derek's cock is forcing itself inside, forcing Stiles's body to stretch around it enough to keep it tight inside.

"Don't bite me, god, don't bite me," Stiles chants as Derek starts to come with hard rabbiting hips and fangs pressing into the nape of Stiles's neck, like he was an animal in need of pinning down. Maybe he is. Stiles can't tell any more. He digs his fingers into the soft soil as Derek comes in him, hot and continuous, his knot locking them together in a way that makes Stiles too afraid to move.

Derek keeps pressing into him, never quite still, little slow thrusts then frantic humping that makes Stiles whimper then back to careful little thrusts. Stiles is too hot, between the sun and Derek's overheated body, but there's nowhere to go so he has to endure.

When Derek finally pulls free, with an unpleasant squelch that leaves Stiles leaking, Stiles stays where he is for a long minute, panting into the ground. His skin aches where Derek left bruises and scratches and his ass is a low constant throb. He tries to lever himself up but his limbs are shaky so he flops onto his side instead and tries to slowly ease the feeling back into his legs.

He watches as Derek lopes around him in a wide circle, pausing to sniff the air in random places before moving another few paces and repeating the motion. He's very very naked and Stiles tries very hard not to think on that. He reaches down where his jeans are hanging off one foot and tries to tug them back on but Derek is on him in seconds, yanking them completely off and tossing them aside.

"Derek," Stiles moans but Derek shoves him back down on his side and then his hand is warm on Stiles's thigh, pushing it up, exposing Stiles where he's still sluggishly leaking and swiping three fingers through the mess. Stiles jerks away from the feeling but Derek has already bounded away. Stiles gets to watch as Derek wipes his fingers on a tree then turns and heads back.

"Derek, come on," Stiles tries but there's no indication that Derek has heard him at all. Stiles grits his teeth and lets Derek repeatedly slide his fingers through the mess he's made of Stiles's ass and wipe it all over the surrounding trees. The worst is when he shoves three fingers inside, twisting them, hooking more mess out, ignoring the way Stiles jerks and gasps as the sensation.

"Is this a territory thing?" Stiles asks, unclenching his teeth, trying to get Derek to acknowledge him, "A wolf thing? Do you do this in your own room?"

Derek wanders around the circle he's marked, sniffing and touching, a bush here, some flowers there. Stiles is very glad he doesn't have enhanced senses because he's pretty sure their little area must absolutely stink.

"Okay, do you think we can..." Stiles starts, pushing himself up only to find himself shoved back down, Derek caging him against the ground. His breathing speeds up as Derek wipes his hands across Stiles shoulder, his side, the top of his thigh. Stiles grabs Derek's wrist when Derek's hand curls around the back of Stiles's thigh, and its a mistake. Derek snarls right in his face and his hands clamp down painfully.

"Okay, okay, shit," Stile says, forcing his fingers to loosen and easing himself back down. Everything is shocky bright and it was stupid of him to think this was over after one fuck.

Derek stares at the side of his face, hot breath huffing against Stiles's neck, before he makes a noise of satisfaction at Stiles's supplication and pushes Stiles's thigh up again.

Stiles is glad he isn't on his knees this time, raw and sore as they are from the first time, but he feels more exposed on his side, leg shoved up to open him to better take a cock, Derek hunkered down over him, sniffing at his neck.

Stiles makes a high noise when Derek's cock finds his hole and shoves inside, not as rough as before but just as intense. Derek's hand hooks under Stiles's knee, holding it so that Stiles's thigh is pressed against his own stomach. It makes Derek's cock feel bigger somehow, each thrust deeper. Stiles whimpers and Derek huffs into his neck, hips working against Stiles's, fucking into him like he's never going to stop.

This time, when Derek's knot starts to swell, he pulls back, sitting up and using his thighs to keep Stiles spread wide. Stiles wants to tell him to stop looking, or stop touching, tell him something but he doesn't have the words and he's pretty sure Derek wouldn't hear him anyway. Derek pushes in a little, then back, the in again and it takes a few seconds for Stiles to realise he's watching the way his swelling knot stretches Stiles's hole.

Stiles can't look at Derek's face so he turns his own away, squeezes his eyes closed, but that doesn't stop him feeling the way Derek forces the thickening knot inside then tugs it back out, or the way Stiles's hole is resisting more and more with each turn.

"Just put it in," Stiles grits when he can't take it anymore. Derek's concentration is too much, the way he makes little grunting whines when Stiles's hole takes his knot again and again. "Jesus Derek, just put it in."

It's harder to take this time around, now that Stiles understands what he's feeling. The knot swells viciously, keeping Stiles on Derek's cock, unable to move without making Derek's body roll against his, Derek keening hard little noises of pleasure. Stiles feels overwrought, strung out, but Derek isn't finished, pressing him down, keeping him open, fucking against him.

Derek licks at Stiles's shoulder, shoves his face against Stiles's jaw and butts it up until he can lick at Stiles's exposed throat, his cock rubbing Stiles inside, hands everywhere. Stiles feels owned and he hates it.

Derek's hand finds Stiles's chest and presses until Stiles is twisted, back pressed into the ground, hips still swivelled, stuck with Derek's knot in his ass. Derek breathes wetly into Stiles's face and then fits his jaws around Stiles's throat.

Stiles feels his heart racing, so heavily he starts to feel light headed. He reaches up to shove at Derek's bulk but his hands are batted away. Derek's teeth are sharp points against the softness of Stiles's throat. Derek licks where Stiles's pulse is beating frantically, blood racing under his skin in panic.

"Don't," Stiles pleads, hoarse with terror, "Derek, please."

Derek keeps him there, on the edge, until his knot softens and his cock slides from Stiles's ass. It's cooler now the sun is going down but Stiles is sweating, the breeze chilling him, making gooseflesh raise on his skin. Derek slowly removes his jaws and sits back, staring down with his head tilted. Stiles stays exactly where he is, too afraid to move. He hopes it's over.

It's not over.

Stiles loses count of how many times Derek fucks into him, pushes and manipulates him where he wants and fills him with his cock and then his knot. Derek's teeth against his throat becomes so normal Stiles doesn't even beg. Maybe it would be better to let Derek sink his fangs in now, maybe Stiles could deal with the aftermath better if he were a wolf.

Derek doesn't bite, just fucks and fucks and fucks, like Stiles is a thing that exists just for Derek to screw his knot into, rut into, come in and lick and paw at until his cock is spent.

The sun rises and sets, Stiles throat gets hoarse, his mouth dry, his body aches and Derek fucks.

Stiles doesn't pass out exactly but he floats somewhere near it, letting Derek use his body to fuck his way through the spell. He lets his awareness get a little fuzzy, ignores the thick heavy thump of Derek's cock in his ass and the way his body is soft and sore. It gets cold again and Derek stays close which Stiles is grateful for, but it means Derek barely pulls out between knottings and Stiles needs to let himself float to get through.

Derek's hands on his face, tapping at his cheekbones, brings Stiles back into his head. He fights it because he can feel liquid trickling down his thighs which means Derek's knot has gone down and Stiles's ass is empty and wet, a feeling he's come to hate.

"Stiles?" Derek says, "Stiles? Hey. Are you hurt?" His hands roam over Stiles's body, touching bruised and scraped skin with gentle fingers.

Stiles's eyes pop open at the sound of Derek's voice. Derek hasn't said a word to him since the first time he...

"Derek?" Stiles says and he'd be embarrassed at how badly his voice cracks if he had the energy. "Oh my god Derek, is it over?"

Derek's face swims into view and Stiles's hope breaks in two. It's not over. Derek's face is tight with strain, but it's Derek. His Derek. Not some mindless wolf driven by the urge to knot. Stiles paws weakly at Derek's shoulders. He can barely hold his own arms up.

"I can't," he says, and he wants to cry but he has nothing left. "I can't, Derek, please."

"Shh, shh, Stiles, shh, it's okay," Derek says, petting at Stiles's face but his muscles are shivering under his skin and his hips are already rolling against Stiles. "I'm sorry, just once more."

He rolls Stiles onto his back, ignoring Stiles's protests, and flattens himself down, a hot solid expanse between Stiles's thighs. His hands are gentler than they've been since the beginning as they scoop Stiles's thighs up and slide them wide, opening Stiles to his gaze.

"I'm sorry," Derek says again but his hand is stroking across Stiles's stomach, over his groin, down until his fingers can caress Stiles's soft aching hole. "There's so much boiling under my skin. I want to stop but I can't, god, Stiles, you're so soft, I want to fill you up, I'm so sorry, I can't stop..."

Derek trails off on a groan as he slides two fingers inside, making Stiles arch his back and whine. It's too much. Derek has been in him for so long, Stiles's whole body feels hot and over sensitive and Derek's fingers are like electric shocks. Derek twists them as Stiles struggles shakily against him, pressing and pushing in the wet mess he's made until Stiles gasps, mouth wide, gulping at air.

"Don't!" Stiles says but Derek just shushes him, leans down until they're pressed stomach to stomach, and mouths carefully at Stiles's neck. He keeps working his fingers until Stiles's own cock finally stirs.

"Derek, please," Stiles begs but Derek mouths at his cheekbone and fucks Stiles's hole, ignores the way Stiles whimpers.

"I want so much," Derek says, glassy eyed and shocky, "Stiles, fuck, I shouldn't but I..."

He wraps a hot palm around Stiles's cock, strokes it firmly, twisting up and over the head, using his thumb to tease at Stiles's slit while his other hand works between Stiles's ass. Stiles comes with a high reedy cry, sudden, so hard it hurts him, makes him try to curl into himself but Derek is there, keeping him flat, keeping him exposed. Derek's fingers don't stop fucking into him and Derek's eyes are intent on his face.

"I want to knot you," Derek says, feverish, "Again and again, fuck, I want to breed you, Stiles. I want to tie you down and make you take it until you can't, until you beg me to stop, then make you take it again, just to prove you can, just to make sure you _know_."

Stiles wants to point out he's done all of that but he doesn't know how present Derek was and he needs Derek to stop fingering him so all he can do is gasp wetly at the sky as dawn breaks slowly above them.

Derek's cock is just as hard as it has been every other time he's fucked it inside Stiles. This time, Stiles's thighs are pressed against Derek's hips, and Derek's arm is under his ass, lifting it up, letting his cock get in so deep Stiles thinks he might never stop feeling it.

Derek doesn't pull back, keeps his cock in deep and just rocks his groin against Stiles's, his other arm sliding under Stiles's shoulders to pull him closer. Stiles thought Derek had been as close as he could be before but this is overwhelming, he's hot everywhere and all he can feel is Derek's skin on him, inside and out.

"Stiles," Derek murmurs against his jaw, mouthing at his throat, "Stiles, I want..." and then he's kissing Stiles, mouth careful but demanding, tongue sliding inside. Stiles doesn't try to stop him, just parts his lips and lets it happen. Derek is so careful with him, so tender and Stiles can't do anything but react, cock filling in response to Derek's engulfing everything, arcing into Derek's mouth, his hands, his thrusts.

Derek kisses him through the fattening of his knot, keeps Stiles's hips pinned so he can tease Stiles's hole a little then tie him up with a thick heavy swell. He hunches as he comes, until their groins grind together and Stiles's hips protest the force. Derek leans up on his forearms when they're fixed together, when Stiles can't escape, and licks at Stiles's face, little wet touches with the tip of his tongue, broken by low whines deep in his throat each time his cock kicks more come up into Stiles. He's looking right into Stiles's eyes when he reaches between them and wraps a hand around Stiles's cock.

"Derek, don't," Stiles begs, near tears, exhausted and rung out and weak as a kitten. Derek kisses him again, gentle, just a press of lips, but he doesn't stop what he's doing with his hands, doesn't even pause.

"Nearly there," he says into Stiles's collarbone, "You've done so good and we're nearly there, just a little bit more." He twists his hand and grinds his knot in Stiles's ass when Stiles's hole squeezes along with the rest of his body.  "You can give me just a little bit more."

"I can't, Derek, please," Stiles whimpers and turns out he does have the energy to cry. He sobs while Derek hums into his skin and keeps tugging at his cock, twisting up pleasure and pain until Stiles can't tell where he is in his own body. When he comes it's with a strangled cry, and Derek kisses the wetness on his cheek and rocks into him where Stiles's hole is squeezing his knot and fills him with more wetness, stroking fingers down his ribs in wide possessive strokes.

Derek rolls until Stiles is spread over him, stuck on his cock and splayed over his chest. Stiles tries to protest but Derek swipes his hands down Stiles's back rhythmically, still lifting his hips periodically, shifting Stiles on his knot, and Stiles can't do anything but settle down and wait.

"You said one more," Stiles accuses a little while later, voice sluggish with exhaustion, "you said."

"I know," Derek soothes, but his hands feel huge on Stiles's ass where he's gripping and encouraging Stiles to move. Stiles can't so Derek does it for him, rocking him on Derek's cock which is still in his ass, arranging him so that Stiles's cock is riding the line of his stomach. "I know, I'm sorry, I know."

It's not one more time.

Not even close.

 

Stiles wakes up because Derek is shaking him. It's dark again. Or still? No, again he's pretty sure. He struggles against Derek's hold on his calves until he realises Derek is trying to force his legs into his ruined jeans.

"Is it over?" Stiles croaks. Derek's shoulders go tight for a second but then he's there, levering Stiles up and bringing a bottle of water to his mouth. "Is it?"

"Drink this," Derek interrupts and tips the bottle until Stiles complies. He's thirstier than he realises so he's finished half the bottle before he's ready to bat Derek's hand away. Before Stiles can ask any more questions, Derek is shoving a shirt over his head like he's a child. Stiles thinks about protesting but he can't find the energy to move his arms.

"Where did you get this?" he asks, plucking at the black material. It's crusted with blood.

"The cabin," Derek says shortly, and Stiles can only stare at the top of his head while he cradles Stiles's foot and pushes it into Stiles's shoe.

"You went back to the cabin?" Stiles asks. He means it casually but there must be a note of something in his voice because Derek's head pops up.

"You were okay, I made sure," Derek says but he hovers closer, hand not quite touching Stiles's arms. Stiles stares back at him and tries to breathe through the panic of knowing that he was naked and passed out on the forest floor and Derek just left him there.

"I was gone for five minutes tops," Derek says, tone almost pleading.

"How are we getting back to Beacon Hills?" Stiles asks, looking away. Derek hovers for another minute, looking like he wants to say something, before clicking his teeth and getting up.

"The brain trust left the dead hunters phone behind."

"Wow, they really were amateurs," Stiles marvels. Derek nods then reaches down to grasp at Stiles's arms. Stiles doesn't mean to flinch but he can't help it, a small instinctive part of him still telling him to run even after everything that's happened. Derek freezes, visibly debates leaving Stiles to haul himself to his feet then clearly realises that Stiles is weaker than a newborn deer and lets his hand finish its journey. His grip is so familiar Stiles's head briefly spins.

The minute he's on his feet, a gush of wetness floods down his thighs. He can feel it soaking the back of his jeans, making his skin tacky. Derek takes a sharp breath and his eyes go momentarily glassy, before he lets go of Stiles and takes four large steps back. Stiles kind of wants to laugh. The damage is already done and all the distance in the world won't make a difference now.

"We just need to get to the road," Derek says and he waits while Stiles wobbles on his feet before he gets his centre of gravity back under control.

Everything hurts. All his muscles scream in protest. His foot is throbbing and Stiles thinks he's probably going to have to get that looked at. His stomach is a hollow aching emptiness. He feels tired and gritty and used. Derek clearly wants to help but he holds himself back and Stiles is grateful for that small measure of mercy.

 

"Where have you been?" Scott asks, face frantic with worry when he and Derek stumble out of the treeline, grabbing Stiles in a hard hug then letting go just as quickly when Stiles lets out a moan of pain. Derek catches him before he can collapse then eases him into Scott's hands. Stiles doesn't particularly want Scott touching him any more than he wants Derek touching him but there's no way he's staying upright on his own.

In the truck, Stiles leans his head against the window and tunes out Scott's insistent questions. He's tired. He's sore. He's leaking Derek's come into Scott's seat. Derek can deal.

His resolve lasts all the way until Scott pulls into the vet clinic.

"No," he says, surging up from his slump and immediately regretting it when his entire body protests viciously.

"Yes," Derek says back.

Stiles struggles out of the car but Derek is already there, arms folded, eyes fixed on a point just above Stiles's left shoulder. Scott walks slowly towards them, clearly unsure about what's going on.

"I don't need to see anyone," Stiles says hotly, pointing in Derek's face, "fuck you, I'm fine."

"Stiles," Derek says, then glances at Scott and grits his teeth. "You need to see..."

"It's my body," Stiles insists shrilly and Derek full body flinches. Stiles might feel bad about that later but not right now, not in a parking lot, not with his ass still wet and dully throbbing.

"What's going on?" Scott says and his voice has an edge to it that sounds like violence.

"Not now, Scott," Stiles says, deflating all at once. He just wants to go home, shower for six hours and sleep in his own room for at least triple that.

"Stiles," Derek says, plaintive, but Stiles ignores him and gets back in the truck, looking straight ahead and not anywhere near where Derek is standing. He hears Scott and Derek have a short conversation and then they're driving away, leaving Derek behind.

Stiles's is glad but when he looks in the rearview mirror at Derek, alone and looking so lost, it starts an extra ache in his stomach that doesn't ease up for days.

 

After a couple of days, it's pretty clear Derek told Scott everything. Scott hovers, closer than usual, and makes it clear he's ready to listen if Stiles needs that. Stiles ignores the invitation and the openings Scott keeps leaving.

"Do you...want to talk about it?" Scott says eventually, hesitant but determined. Sometimes Stiles really wishes he had a more self absorbed, less caring best friend.

"Really no, Scotty," he tries but Scott puts a careful hand on his arm, tilting his head down to catch Stiles's eye.

"You can talk to me," he says, quiet and sure, "If you need to. I'll listen."

Stiles shakes his head and turns back to the game they were playing, keeps his eyes focused until Scott huffs a breath and sits back. Stiles wants to never think about it again.

Scott, of course, because he is a pain in the ass and also Stiles's best friend in the whole world, won't let it go. There's a granite anger that takes over his face when he thinks no one is looking but Stiles is still too fragile to deal with other people's feelings so he ignores it.

After a week it becomes pretty clear that the entire pack is avoiding Derek. Stiles doesn't want to deal with this but he can't stop thinking of Derek, alone in the parking lot while he and Scott just drove off.

"You need to stop giving Derek a hard time," he says when Scott is sitting sentient at his window, very clearly on guard and badly pretending not to be. He hates the way his voice shakes but it needs to be said.

"What?" Scott says whipping around so fast he nearly falls out of his chair. Stiles closes his eyes because he does not want to have this conversation.

"You heard me."

"Stiles," Scott says in the voice that tells Stiles he's getting ready to work himself up into a frenzy, "You can't be serious! After what he did to you, he..."

"He didn't do anything," Stiles says then, at the furious noise Scott makes, amends to, "nothing he wasn't forced to. I know you're mad, I'm mad too, but this isn't Derek's fault and it's not fair for you to punish him for it."

"He could have stopped himself," Scott says, low and angry, "I would have."

"No, you wouldn't have," Stiles replies, weary, "Whatever the hunters did would have worked just the same on you. I know you're mad but you're mad at the wrong person."

He gets up and leaves Scott in his room, lets him stew. It's best that way. Scott's anger blows over quick but Stiles doesn't have the energy to wait so he makes a sandwich instead and offers the uneaten half as a peace offering when Scott slinks downstairs, guilt wafting off him in waves.

"I should have been there," Scott says, quiet and apologetic.

Stiles loves the guy but he wants to fucking strangle him.

"Why? So I could get fucked by two werewolves out of their minds?" Stiles snaps back, harsh. It's the first time he's really said it out loud to someone else. It makes his vision go a little spotty but he keeps his eyes trained on Scott, body poised like he's ready to fight.

"What? No, I mean, I could have helped stop it!" Scott says, startling back. Stiles laughs, harsh and angry.

"What part of it was a spell are you not getting, Scotty?" he says, slow and deliberate in the way he knows makes Scott furious. It's dumb and cruel and he doesn't fucking care. "Derek was under a spell. He could not control himself. You wouldn't have been able to either and one of us would be dead. Probably me."

"No," Scott says back, shaking his head like it'll change anything, "If I was there, I could have done something. I could have controlled myself. Derek should have tried..."

"He did try," Stiles shouts, done with this whole conversation, "He tried really fucking hard and it made no difference."

They stare at each other in the sudden silence, Stiles's sides heaving.

"I know you feel guilty and shitty," Stiles says eventually, "but this isn't about you, Scotty. It's about me and about Derek. You weren't there and if you had been, it would have been worse. If you need to make up some rescue fantasy to deal, fine, but do it in your own head because I can't deal with your emotions on top of mine."

Scott opens his mouth, shuts it, then steps forward, arms open. Stiles takes a shuddering breath and falls into him, clinging like Scott is the only thing that will stop him washing away. Maybe he is.

"I'm sorry this happened," Scott murmurs into his hair, "I'm so sorry it happened, Stiles."

Stiles clings harder and lets himself sob. He hopes Derek has someone to hold onto and desperately ignores the niggling voice that suggests that person might have been him.

 

He meets Deaton in a library two towns over. It's weird, seeing him outside of the vet clinic. Stiles isn't sure he'll ever get used to that. Deaton nods to him and Stiles trails him inside and stands just behind him as he speaks to the librarian and gets a key to the study room he pre-booked.

"Stiles," Deaton says when they're in the room, door closed firmly behind them. "How are you?"

Stiles doesn't bother to answer that. It's clear Deaton knows what's up so Stiles is going to roll with the assumption that he also knows Stiles is very very very far from alright.

"I tried to look it up myself," Stiles says, avoiding Deaton's probing stare. "But I can't figure out what exactly to look for. I've found a couple things but nothing that matches." He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his hoodie pocket and shoves it across the table at Deaton, who looks surprised.

Stiles has no idea why. It's not like anyone in their little pack of horrors isn't fully aware of who he is and how he functions. He was home barely two days before he was furtively googling, using an ip masker and an untraceable browser, facing his window so he'd know immediately if anyone tried to come in. It had been hours of frustration, mostly.

Deaton picks up the paper between a finger and a thumb, looks at it like it might bite him, then pushes a thin folder across the desk in return. It contains a few pages of printed notes, a couple of diagrams and a conclusion.

Stiles had assumed Scott had gone to Deaton for information but...

"Derek's been to see you," Stiles says, flat.

Deaton had given him three pages of clear research which means Deaton knows everything, not just the cliff notes. The thought of Derek gritting out the story turns Stiles's stomach. The thought of Deaton knowing makes sweat pop at his hairline. He clenches his fists under the table, staring blindly at the open folder in front of him.

"He has," Deaton agrees but says nothing more.

Stiles breathes through his teeth and tries to focus. He needed answers, that's why he's here. That Deaton has already done the work is a bonus, surely? His pounding pulse won't listen to reason though so he squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself sternly to get a grip.

"Would you like me to leave for a few moments?" Deaton asks, delicately.

"No," Stiles snaps and forces himself upright in his chair. "No, I wouldn't. Tell me what you know. It was some kind of spell? A s...ex spell?" Stiles stumbles on the word, glares at Deaton and brazens through it. "I couldn't find anything that matches."

Deaton inclines his head, looking askance at the paper Stiles had pushed at him earlier. "I'm not surprised."

The urge to snap something clever in return sizzles on his tongue for a short flash but it's gone before Stiles can do anything about it. Instead he tips his chair back and waits.

"As far as I can tell," Deaton says slowly, like he knows Stiles isn't going to like what he's about to say, "It's a hybrid spell. A clumsy one but powerful. The caster used blood magic and sex magic to bind it to the recipient."

"Derek," Stiles corrects because if he's pulling off the bandaid, he may as well go all the way.

"Derek," Deaton agrees, "Each time he..." Deaton casts around for the right word before settling on "...completed, the spell grew stronger."

"What does that mean," Stiles asks but he already knows.

Deaton looks at him calmly. "I can't undo it, only the caster can."

"Dead Daryl," Stiles breathes. He digs his fingers into his thighs and forces himself not to panic.

"I tried my best and I may have come up with something to mitigate the effects somewhat but," Deaton lifts his shoulder and on anyone else it might be called a shrug but on him, it's too deliberate a move, "we won't know until this full moon cycle."

Stiles's head feels like it's spinning and he slumps forward onto the table, pressing his forehead to the cool wood.

"Derek told me he was able to control it partially for a brief period, which gives me hope that he can control it more rigorously with the right aid."

"A potion a day," Stiles says numbly.

"Once a month," Deaton corrects because of course he does.

"Three nights," Stiles says, hoarse, "Three nights he...we...he..."

"I'm sorry," Deaton says and his hand is cool against Stiles's bare forearm, "I'll keep working on it. I might be able to make something more effective once I know how this moon plays out but until then."

Until then they're working on assumptions and hope. And no fucking cure.

 

Scott calls him the night before the moon is fullest. It's still light outside, clouds scudding across a bright blue sky and, although it's impossible because Stiles is human, he can feel the tug of the moon under his skin. It's urging him and he knows what it wants.

"Hey man, we're running in the preserve tomorrow. You want to come?" Scott asks. His tone is still careful, like he thinks Stiles might flip at any second, but he's hovering less so Stiles will take it.

"Nah man, I wanna stay home and watch Masterchef reruns with the old man."

"You sure?" Scott asks, laughing a little.

"Hey man," Stiles says, pretending to be offended, "The Stilinskis love to watch other people cook."

He doesn't tell Scott. He knows he should but he also know that Scott will try to stop him from doing what he's planning on doing and Stiles doesn't want to hear his arguments or see the look on his face when Stiles ignores them all.

The thing is Stiles has Scott. Stiles has always had Scott. Stiles has his dad, and that's a big have. Derek. Derek has no one and the wrongness of that sits in Stiles's bones until he can feel it with every step he takes.

When the sky is streaking pink, Stiles grabs his keys and gets in his car.

 

The moon is low in the sky when he pulls up outside Derek's place. It looks full but Stiles knows its not, not because he looked it up once when he was seven (he did) but because the itch in his skin is telling him.

It's not full yet but the almost is just as important.

Stiles stands by his car for a long minute before getting out. He slips past someone who lives a few floors down from Derek, nodding at them as he passes, taking the stairs two at a time. Now he's made the decision, he's itchy to get on with it.

Derek, of course, isn't cooperative.

"I'm not going anywhere," Stiles calls through Derek's closed door, "I know you're there and I'm not leaving." He makes a game of it, knocking in patterns, then at random intervals, hums off-key under his breath as he does.

He's halfway through the TMNT theme tune when Derek yanks the door open and Stiles stumbles inside. Derek dodges him then settles across the room, rocking on the balls of his feet. Stiles can see the fine tremor in his muscles already.

"Derek," he says and his voice is steady.

"No," Derek says. "It's not going to be as bad this time. I can feel it." His eyes are wild around the edges and Stiles can see his pupils dilating from all the way across the room.

"Derek," he says again and steps further inside.

"I can ride this out. It's going to be fine." Derek says and it's a lie. Stiles knows as certainly as he knows his own name. Derek meets his eye briefly, a sharp defiant tilt to his jaw, seeingly unaware that his conviction is at odds with the way his feet have started shifting his body round to get between Stiles and the door.

Stiles refuses to be herded, not this time, so he kicks off his shoes and plops onto Derek's sofa, right in the middle.

"Well, if you're going to be fine, we can watch something together. I have a bunch of Marvel shows I haven't caught up on yet." He wriggles a little to show that he's getting comfortable. "Or the new Masterchef episode is up?"

"Stiles," Derek says and its a warning but it holds such a heady note of longing that Stiles just kicks his feet up on the coffee table and pats the cushion next to him.

Derek sits but neither of them make a move for the remote. The pull of the spell spiderwebs between them. Stiles can feel it now, sneaking in at the cracks, poised to take over.

"I can't...if you're here," Derek says, low like a confession.

Stiles closes his eyes.

He refuses to let what happened to him, to _them_ , ruin them both. Instead, he blindly gropes until he finds Derek's hand, already inching across the space between them, and grabs onto it.

"We're in it together," he says, and his voice shakes this time but he means it.

"Stiles," Derek says and Stiles swings himself around until he's straddling Derek's lap, hands settling on broad shoulders. He refuses to listen to whatever Derek was going to say in that tortured tone of voice.

"Stiles," Derek says again but its a different kind of low and his eyes are glassy, hands already finding their way to Stiles's ass.

"Together," Stiles says, swallowing down panic and, when Derek surges up to take his mouth, Stiles doesn't fight him.

 


End file.
